Of Legends Born
by Prophet McGee
Summary: The dragon blood is something coveted by many but singularly possessed, unknown even to the man himself until Alduin returns to Tamriel and begins to set it ablaze. Along his journey he will meet new companions, make many enemies, and gather vast power. This is his story.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **This is my first Skyrim fic. A few things. First, as the summary implied, my Dragonborn doesn't get initiated into a guild. Way I see it, he'd be too busy trying to get Skyrim on it's feet and fighting the dragons to worry about the status of any guild. Second, I may well be updating sporadically, due to my schedule and tendency to get distracted by shinies. Third, this will be a mature fic: Blood, language, violence, sex, the whole bit. If you aren't interested in any of those, then don't read and spare us a griping comment. I don't say that to be rude, simply because I want those of you readers that either enjoy or don't mind the content to not have to read such comments when they go to review. Hate breeds more hate. Lastly: I do not own Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls universe, only my characters. Enjoy!

* * *

Of Legends Born

A Skyrim fanfic

Prologue

* * *

**The Warrior**

_Cyrodiil Province, The Imperial City_

_5 Midyear, 4E 201_

There was vice enough in the Imperial City, if one knew where to look. Oh, true, the legitimate businesses dominated since the Thieves Guild's presence had deteriorated, but one didn't need to be a thief or skooma junkie to find things many considered... unsavoury. Gambling, for one, had a strong presence among many of the working class and those beggars that managed to squirrel away a septim. Here and there a smuggler or three managed to get some of the more 'restricted' items into the city, but it was rare since customs officials and the rule of law and justice had such a strong presence, and were constantly on the watch for such things. But the most prominent vice was one that had existed before even man's existence, since even the elves could not fully acquit themselves of the weaknesses of the flesh, and it was now a business that thrived more than most others did in the wake of the Great War between Empire and Dominion, though attempts were still made to conceal it.

And if there was one thing General Maximus Tullius hated, it was giving in to vice. His Legates knew it, his soldiers knew it, and his bloody family knew it perhaps most of all. Yet some, more than others, seemed always bent on seeing just how far they could stretch the boundaries of his patience. After so many years, one would have thought that the General's patience had expanded, but if anything, the opposite had been achieved; the fire for which he was famous burned bright and hot, causing him to snap easily.

That very fire was apparent in his stride, the ramrod-straightness of his spine and the rutted furrows along his brow as he marched at the head of a squad of a dozen Legionnaires in full kit. The only thing he hated more than giving in to vice was being woken in the middle of the night for some unnecessary frippery or another.

It showed.

The alleyway they were marching down echoed with the clatter of plate mail and the creak of leather as the short column tramped through the early morning chill. A yawn occasionally broke the face of one of the younger soldiers, though they made discreet attempts to stifle it. Some of them knew where they were headed and the others didn't, but Tullius was familiar with it, much to his disdain. The door they stopped outside of was rather nondescript, much like the others in this quarter of the city, though the sounds of late night revelers could be heard from the other side. Under such circumstances, one would not have suspected it of anything more damning than being home to a particularly rowdy family. But the General knew better.

Not bothering to stop, much less slow, Maximus reached for the handle and yanked roughly, being greeted by a wash of warm air carrying the scents of roasted foods and a few liquors... along with the slightest undercurrent of passion. Stepping over the threshold revealed a well-lit common area much like what one would find at an inn, though perhaps larger, with a long bar and kitchen near the far wall and a multitude of chairs and tables set about. A few doorways led out of this main room, and a staircase led up to a balcony that hugged three walls, with more closed doors set all around this area. People filled the room, some eating, many drinking, almost all men with a woman dressed in tawdry and revealing fashion lounging in his lap or at his side. The few onlookers were rather muscular men watching all others like hawks, each with a heavy blackjack looped to their belts, with the exception of two women; both at least a decade or two older than the young tricks plying their trade, and both dressed rather modestly, though still with an abundance of cleavage. These two both stiffened visibly when Tullius entered, easily noticeable in his ornate armour, and after a few moments most of the activity died down.

'CLEAR OUT!'

It was as transparent an order as any, and though the soldiers were _outside_, none of the men within hesitated, moving with a speed that would have impressed a Legion drill instructor, discarding food, drink, and mistress alike in their hurry to get away from what was clearly an explosion waiting to happen. Most of the prostitutes pouted as their business for the night disappeared, and the two women who had been watching stood and came forward, clearly irritated. But before either one of them could so much as open their mouth, Tullius was speaking.

'Where is he?' His tone brooked no argument. He took no back talk from his men, he'd have none from these two.

'General-' the first began, though immediately overruled.

'Where is he, Amillie?' Her lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line, face taking on a decidedly chill glare that would have worked on lesser men. It was a look wasted on a man that had repeatedly stared death in the face, spat in it, and lived to tell the tale. Her dusk-skinned companion hastened forward in the ensuing silence, with a huskily smooth voice.

'He's not here tonight, general. Perhaps you should check one of his other haunts.' Tullius scoffed condescendingly

'Don't bullshit me, Ranni. My information is accurate, now _where is my nephew?_' Silence, followed by an indignant huff before Amillie's thick Bretonian accent spoke again.

'Upstairs, dans le Red Room...' She'd barely finished speaking before the Imperial was moving again with a string of muffled curses, followed by a tall, plate-clad Legate and two more Legionnaires. Turning right at the top of the stairs, he went all the way down to the end of the balcony and the last door. Gods, he could hear both the bastard _and_ the whore he was with...

Tullius didn't even bother with dignity. The door was met with an angry shoulder that forced it open, stepping into a room covered with curtains of rose-red silk that hung from ceiling to floor and encompassed a four-poster bed, on which the room's occupants were decidedly... busy. Lavish appointments aside, it really was all the general could do to not grab a candle and toss it onto the drapes in his anger. His nephew didn't even seem to notice that they were no longer alone, continuing to plough the young woman as he was, even when Tullius reached for him. The facade dropped instantly, fingers clamping around the older man's wrist in an iron grip as he twisted at the waist, chromatically brilliant eyes meeting the old soldier's steely greys. Everything stilled, with the exception of the constant slap of skin on skin, and then a lopsided grin curled lazily along the young man's face.

'Uncle! Good to see you, though I'm surpris-' He was cut short as Tullius drew back and punched him square on the mouth with his free fist, knocking him flat onto the bed and completely out of the prostitute to blink dazedly at the red-covered ceiling.

'Godsdammit all, Decimus, I've told you NOT TO COME HERE!' The general's anger was nigh-palpable in a heartbeat, even as his nephew reached up and brushed fingers over the stinging welts forming on his lips in seeming unconcern, his mistress for the night attempting to cover herself as she trembled.

'You know what being part of this family means, the precedent we have to set for the people, and still, YOU EMBARASS ME! If your mother hadn't been my sister-' He stopped, gulped. Decimus took the opportunity to raise a finger and open his mouth.

'But she _was_ your sister...' Anything further was cut off at the look on his uncle's face as he stood there, shaking in his anger. The Nord behind him shuffled slightly before returning to a schooled position of dutiful attention until her superior managed to gain control of himself.

'And it is only because we are blood that you are being given this chance.' He drew himself up, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing the prostitute with a pointed stare until she took the hint, keeping the sheet wrapped more or less around her as she gathered her clothes, risked a quick kiss, and then scurried out to the younger Tullius' protest.

'I already paid her for the night!'

'Stow it!' the elder countered. 'I'm leaving tomorrow, I've been appointed governorship of Skyrim. And you're coming with me.' Decimus' jaw dropped, a look of bewilderment clamping onto his features.

'Skyrim? Cold, snows a lot, where even the women grow beards? Oh, present company excluded, of course,' he said at the look on the Legate's face.

'Skyrim. The Fatherland. Call it what you will, we're going there. You have until mid-morning to be ready to go.' The old man turned to his subordinate. 'Legate Rikke, I want him out of here and back at the family estate in an hour. _If he protests_-' he interjected to Decimus' loud indignation, 'tie him up and haul his sorry ass there.'

'Understood General,' she replied, turning and motioning to two of the guards waiting on the balcony.

Decimus flopped backwards, drained and irritated enough that the lack of sexual stimulation finally got through to his engorged prick. _Gods save me..._

* * *

**The Assassin**

_Cyrodiil Province, Cheydinhal_

_21 Sun's Height, 4E 201_

Not many ventured near the old ruins of the Dark Sanctuary anymore, be they man, beastkin, or animal. A stillness, unnatural and stifling, seemed to permeate the air around the collapsed bricks and rotted columns. The only ones who ever came close to the place were the occasional ne'er-do-wells in too deep a stupour to do much more than stumble about, and guard patrols, though even they were few and very far between. And the squirrels, which were the only wildlife that managed to circumvent the city's gate, always stayed atop the wall as they bounded and skittered along on their way. Whispers surrounded the place, mostly in the form of hushed stories spoken at the inn; of a time when the building had stood, albeit derelict, and been a creaking shroud for the vast Sanctuary beneath; of the people, if people they could be called, who lived and trained there, slipping through the dark cover of night to murder throughout Cyrodiil; and of their mistress, pale and cold, beautiful yet terrible to behold and worse to face down, the most bloodthirsty of all, who left aught but shrivelled husks in her wake when she went forth from her home.

Of course, it was all just hearsay and myth. The villagers had seen to the destruction of that den of iniquity, Count be damned, and that darkness was gone now.

Yet still, whispers persisted, the most real of all those being what the wandering drunks thought they heard whenever they accidentally passed through the ruins on their way home for the night. But not just whispers: sometimes it was a simple sound, at the edge of hearing; others, a tune, like that of the lullabies sung by mothers to their infant children as they slept. But tonight, clear and moonless and dark, it was something different altogether. The shadows that had dissipated since the Sanctuary building's destruction had been gathering, creeping in by night and hiding by day, joined the next night by more and more, until the place seemed choked by them when the sun slid past the horizon and the Lady Night spread her cloak upon the province. Whispers had returned, more constant, quieter and yet louder than before, compelling, spoken in a tongue no mortal needed help to recognise; for it was speaking in the language of instinct, which all creatures, man and animal, are born to. And it was but one single word, a command, of a venerable, ancient, and terrible force, yet at the same time one who spoke with a mother's love, and the urgency with which she would rouse a sleeping child to spirit away before a conflagration

_Awaken_.

Below, in the ancient catacomb that still held remnants of offerings to Sithis' glory, a black form stirred, long and lithe, filthy with dust and dirt and the detritus of a century of still hibernation. A single eye, radiantly orange-copper and glowing quite literally with hunger, snapped open.

The instinct of a hundred years without sustenance took over, darkening the eye to an abyssal pit. The blackness writhed, shifted, and ultimately metamorphosed violently into a form more monster than woman, as an avaricious roar heralded its return.

Gaius swung around drunkenly, grunting and looking blearily about. He was certain he'd heard something...

_Shtoopid wollves and their shtupid howls..._ his inebriated mind managed to string together. The man began his swerving trek back toward the eastern gate, and the pallet that served as his home. It was a warm night, and if he'd been sobre he'd have thought that he wouldn't need a blanket. The sudden awareness of a pressing pain near his groin served to take him off course to answer nature's call, however. Any other night, he'd have been lucid enough to realise that he'd veered away through the ruins of the old Sanctuary, along with anyone who'd not been drinking. But it was the anniversary of his sweet Claudia's passing, so it deserved recognition, and he _had_ been saving up quite a few septims anyways. Stopping to steady himself against the charred, lichen-covered remnant of a wall, he reached down and fumbled with the strings of his breeches, sighing in relief a few moments later as his urine began splattering against the ground.

Something caught his attention. Just a small sound, like the waking breath of a lover, but still enough to penetrate the alcoholic fog that addled his brain. The balding man looked around, still holding onto his pecker and continuing his urination while trying to find the source of... whatever it was that he'd heard. Unable to turn far enough and see, even with the wall's help, Gaius rolled, placing his back against the crusty brick and mortar and blinking numerously. By the time he realised that he was no longer peeing, he still hadn't managed to see anything, and so began hitching his pants up again.

A low, deep rumble, saturated with predatory menace, was all the warning he had before cold, hard digits choked off his airway and slammed him hard into the wall he'd just been using as a crutch. Even in his drunken state, instinct kicked in, slamming adrenalin into his veins and snapping his mind into flight mode. But there was no escape, despite how he kicked and thrashed and beat at the grey limb that held him in place. Muddled eyes stared into abyssal, inhuman pits where his assailant's own eyes should have been. Stories were once told of these monsters, looked upon more as legend and myth rather than fact, and Gaius himself, in his youth, had been guilty of scoffing and dismissing them.

He should have listened. But it was all moot, anyways, as ashen lips parted to reveal gleaming fangs, and with another growl, the dark head darted forward, sinking the sharp canines into his neck and spilling the sanguine bounty that lay within it forth. The Imperial's mouth opened in a silent scream, held there in a rictus of beatific horror as the vampire fed until she'd sucked the last possible dregs of his vitae, leaving a withered, wrinkly shell where there had once been a man.

Perhaps it was the sound of the body as it was tossed to the ground; or it may have been the slaking of her hunger that his blood offered: Either way, a sharp gleam appeared that had been absent from the creature's obsidian orbs, and the whoosh of a deep breath entered her lungs before being slowly exhaled, body relaxing somewhat if the lowering of her bony wings was any indication. For the first time in a century, rational thought- _intelligence-_ entered her mind. Memories bubbled up to the surface, fire and blood and screams punctuated by a child's cry before all was dark. A shake that moved her whole body dispelled it all; here and now, she could act. The Imperial's blood had been rank with alcohol, and tasted horrible to begin with. Before anything else was to be done, she needed a proper meal.

An act of will called on powers so ancient that even she did not know their origin, fuelled by magicka and the vital essence that she'd just imbibed to disperse her body into vapourous mist, undulating and flowing near the ground yet still held together by her will alone.

The Listener moved toward the city keep, silent, invisible... and hungry.

* * *

**The Mage**

_Skyrim Province, Southern Eastmarch_

_13 Last Seed, 4E 201_

She cried as she ran, tears running down dirt-stained cheeks from blind eyes as Fleur crashed through bush and bramble. Even though she'd been without sight since birth, the young woman had never felt so helpless as she did now, her so-called handicap giving her a greater appreciation for Tamriel and the Eight and even allowing her to know the area surrounding her family's farm in ways that normal people did not. It didn't matter now, though, as she'd long since passed those boundaries in her headlong flight to parts unknown. Over the sounds of foliage tearing, she could hear the pursuit gaining on her. Likely it was only a matter of time now, but the young Breton's mind was so set in flight mode and clouded by fear that harbouring any thoughts of surrender was impossible. The only imperative the young girl was capable of sustaining was to flee, catching her foot on something and tripping. A frightened noise of pain escaped her as she nearly skinned her palms raw on the hard ground, breath nearly knocked clear of her lungs but body automatically scrambling to right herself back up to her feet and set her onto the reckless path in front of her again.

_I should have made it to Darkwater Crossing by now. I should have made it! OHSWEETMARASAVEME!_ Her thoughts continued gibbering somewhere along that tangent for Fleur knew not how long, only that she was continually blundering forward without the slightest clue of what was coming.

They caught her eventually, as she was clambering her way up an incline. Fleur could smell them before the first was upon her, the rancid stench of unwashed bodies and, in one case, wet fur from the Khajiit that had fallen into a stream during the chase. She'd taken a step, fully intending to take another, foot even lifted to do it, when the bandit grabbed hold of her ankle and jerked to pull her off balance and smack her face on the ground. Another pained cry escaped the blind girl, eyes squeezing shut and spilling more tears, then a foetid weight was keeping her down, pinning arms and legs while calling out to the rest of his mates in triumph.

'Look here, lads: Got us a ripe one what thinks she can escape!' Several heavy footsteps approached, clomping on the road and hooting excitedly. There was so much pressure on her arms and spine that it was bringing fresh tears to her eyes, the memories of the past hour momentarily forgotten under the circumstances. Rough hands twisted her limbs and began to bind her hands with a coarse rope as lewd jokes were passed around the group, the bandits chuckling with malintent. One of them seemed rather nervous, though.

'Hurry up, Gogrom. We need to get off the road, it's too exposed here...' There was jeering and several calls for him to shut up.

'Keep yer yap closed, Rig. Ain't no patrols out this close to Riften,' the orc rumbled. Fleur whimpered and tried to twist a bit, but the bandit took hold of her head and smacked it into the ground lightly. Lightly, that is, for a full-grown male orc. She screamed and wept more, barely coherent of anything else the brigands were saying.

The sudden splash of something hot and wet on her cheek however, was very noticeable, but moreso was the powerful scent of iron in her nostrils and the salty tang of copper on her tongue as some of the blood got in her mouth. Gogrom gurgled, his body fully coming to bear on Fleur's as he suddenly went limp and collapsed. Eyes snapped open in confused fear under the crushing weight, though she was hardly alone in that general sentiment if the ruckus coming from behind her was any indication. Then there was the clash of metal and cries of pain: Battle, some unknown third party entering the fray with wild shouts and, from the sound of it, slaughtering the unprepared bandits to a man. Fleur struggled weakly.

'Please, help,' she called out plaintively, several times before Gogrom's corpse was removed.

'It's alright, we're with the Legion. Help me get her up,' someone commanded, his voice carrying the fluting accent of one native-born to Skyrim. Hands rugged with callous were nonetheless far more gentle than her would-be captor's had been, cutting her bonds and rolling her onto her back before pulling her up to her feet. Fleur hissed at the burning sting in her palms, the skin broken and bleeding in several places.

'Are you hurt girl?' that same voice asked, his breath warm on her face and, judging by the proximity, from the same person that held her right shoulder to keep her steady. The Breton's head swivelled towards him as best she could tell before answering, 'My hands...' They were turned up, presumably so the wounds could be observed, and then he swore under his breath. 'Kallef, get over here. We need the bandages and a healing potion.' Someone whistled, hands cupping under Fleur's and lifting them higher.

'She did a number on 'em... Did you fall?' His voice was deep and rich, as she'd noticed in the few Redguards she'd encountered, a meek nod providing her answer. A gentle clap was placed on her shoulder. 'Well, don't worry. We'll have you fixed up in no time.' When the potion was drizzled onto her bleeding hands she nearly cried out again from the moment of sharp pain, though it turned into a warmth that seeped down into the muscle and began to slowly mend, hardly noticing the linen strips that were wrapped to keep the wounds clean. 'She's good to go, Hadvar. A day at most before her hands are smooth as a babe's skin. Orders?'

'Give me a few moments with her... Where are you from, lass?' the one she now knew as Hadvar asked. With the danger of the bandits passed, the reality of Fleur's situation hit her and brought new grief to her sightless eyes.

'They're dead! _My parents are dead_!'

* * *

**The Thief**

_Skyrim Province, Southwestern Rift_

_15 Last Seed, 4E 201_

Vaelith was not unfamiliar with hardship. Indeed, the Bosmer had endured much of pain since even before his flight from Valenwood decades ago, enough so that it was counted among his constant companions. Old Kar would have approved of many of the lessons since learned, if not the methods by which they'd been discovered. It was pointless to think on his former mentor's teachings, though; he had little time to spare if he wished to live.

The Imperials had been thorough in their search, he had to give them that. It seemed that the new governor of Skyrim was a wily old scrib, and tough as kagouti hide to boot, showing his soldiers by example where one could hide blades and lockpicks on one's own body. Sleeves, lapels, and boots were all easy enough to figure out; harder were inside the legs of breeches and behind the leather of his belt. Found and confiscated as they may have been, Vaelith had not survived as long as he had without picking up a few unorthodox tricks. For starters, the legionnaires would have noticed a small gap in his boot soles had they bothered to look; enough for, say, a slender and short stiletto to fit through.

The trick now was to remove said sole enough to slip the blade free while his hands were bound and then cut himself free, all without drawing the attention of any of the nearby soldiers. Fortunately, the prisoner cart he'd been confined to for the trip to Helgen was high enough to do an ample job of obscuring his activities from the Imperial slobs escorting the convoy, and he made sure to take his time, as much to take his time as anything. Not like there was much else for him to do right now, anyways, and going fast would only result in his getting sloppy. The fact that he'd been caught to begin with was shameful enough, but the Bosmer was unsure how he'd handle it happening again while trying to make his escape.

It took him the better part of the day, and the convoy had long since stopped for the night when Vaelith managed to finally work the sole enough to get his blade free. The thick ropes that bound him took some time to get through, and it was nearing false dawn when he'd sawed through them all the way. Taking care to keep as still as possible, despite the several snoring guards and watchmen, making surreptitious glances all around to find the best angle of escape. After the patrol passed by, oblivious to his seeming-asleep form, the thief looked around again, confirmed his ability to run, and let the tattered ropes fall to the cart deck before slipping out of the cart and keeping his form low to the ground. His whole body ached after having been in one position for days, but he tuned it out as best he could and made for the camp perimeter leading deeper into the forest, travelling east as far as he was able to tell.

See these bastards try to catch him out _here_...

It wasn't long before he could hear the sounds of pursuit, and despite his speed Vaelith found himself wishing for the familiar comfort of his bow and a full quiver of arrows on his back. At least the Imps hadn't stripped him of his clothing. An involuntary shudder went through the mer's body at the thought of that. It was cold enough with his furs, nevermind running around in tattered rags. Keeping his mind focussed on the task of escaping, Vaelith darted through the central Rift forest, keeping his pace until long after his pursuers had faded into the distance. Dawn's cerise light was just beginning to colour the sky when he stopped, panting heavily and trying to catch his wind. Struggling to hear anything over the thundering roar of blood rushing through his ears, Vaelith settled his weight against a nearby ash trunk and sank down on his haunches until he'd managed to regain a modicum of his breath. He soon picked up on the gentle babble of a nearby brook and silently made his way there, little more than a blurred form in the mists. His thirst was slaked quickly, the clear waters sweeter than any he'd tasted in some time, the added factor of his freedom no doubt deepening the taste.

Exhaling quietly in relief, Vaelith stood again, greeted by an endless montage of hazy grey trunks.

Well, at least being lost meant he wasn't in the Imp's custody. If nothing else, the fog would be burned away within a few hours by the sun and he'd have some idea of where he was. There were a few berry bushes in the immediate vicinity which he proceeded to strip clean, fingers and lips stained red when he was finished and the mists beginning to clear as the sun rose. Licking his digits clean and using some saliva to clear his lips of the sweet taste, Vael looked up at the sun and turned east once more, though he angled himself to follow the river and eventually hit Riften. If ever there was a thieves' haven, he'd find it there.

Fortune awaited him.

* * *

**Dovahkiin**

_Skyrim Province, East Falkreath Hold_

_16 Last Seed, 4E 201_

If there was one thing Ragnar hated about Imperials, it was that they were so damn suspicious of anyone trying to share the road with them. They didn't own the fucking thing, no matter what hoity-toity rank any one of them held. Just looking at their camp further on up made him want to punch their general in the mouth, consequences be damned. The power of protection in increased numbers meant nothing when he and his were over a dozen metres away. He held no illusion to his capability in a fight, but his group of stragglers had been on the road for weeks and fended off more than one bandit and wildlife attack, and they were weary: If the predators were smart, they'd pick them off with ease before any one of the Legionnaires could be bothered to do something. Where once they'd numbered ten, they were now barely half that number from the raids. They no longer drank ale, even on the cold nights, and their eyes were grim and hard.

Gods-damned Imperials...

Hati emerged quietly from the brush and stepped into the meagre circle of light thrown out by their campfire, followed quickly by Sköll. Both toted a brace of a few coneys, and the younger twin's satchel was filled with a few roots and herbs he'd managed to scrounge. The two handed their finds off to Falda, the group's unofficial cook, and then sat down to warm themselves. Sköll tossed a few logs on at her direction before holding out his hands with palms towards it, seeking to drive the chill from his flesh.

Ragnar observed it all with vibrant blue eyes, senses still stretched for the slightest noise of incoming threat, laying on his side with his bedroll spread beneath him and working a strip of elk jerky. The mountain forests obscured Masser and Secunda, though the moons were still both near the horizon this early in the evening. Tearing off a piece of the preserved meat, Ragnar chewed on it for several minutes as he watched Falda get Siri to help her with preparing the rabbits, going so far as to threaten the other woman with no supper when she resisted. He smirked, chuffing at the display. The stupid woman should have known by now she had to pull her weight _outside _of combat as well. Grudgingly, Siri sat down and got out her knife, her face pinched in displeasure at the current task though she said no more and simply did it. Why animal guts bothered her was a mystery: She'd been covered by the entrails and blood of men plenty of times and never shown such squeamishness. They didn't have to wait too long before the meat was roasting on a pair of spits and the aroma of rabbit filled their camp, hopefully wafting down to the Legion so the bastards could smell what they were missing. The twins busied themselves with cutting up tubers and getting snow to melt for water, putting the cooking pot up when directed and stoking the fire once more.

Falda looked pointedly at Ragnar and flicked her knife first at her nearby rucksack, then at the piece of meat he was still working. 'Come on, you too. Get me the salt, butter, and peppercorns, then the bowls. And put that away, you'll ruin your appetite,' she directed in a no-nonsense tone. Though his mouth twisted in a playful grimace, he did as told and pocketed the snack before reaching for her pack.

'I don't think anything could spoil my appetite for your cooking, woman,' the Nord joked. She simply told him to remember to get the bread, as well. When everything was combined in the pot, Falda handed him a ladle and had him stir regularly while they waited for the rabbit to finish cooking. Finally, their cook announced it ready and had the others help to cut up pieces small enough to go in the pot. The sun had nearly set when the stew was doled out, Ragnar calling softly for Björn to join their repast. Their final member materialised out of the shadows, relieved of his sentry duties for a few moments to enjoy the meal and comradeship of his friends.

'So,' the middle-aged man started between a mouthful of bread and stew, 'we make Helgen tomorrow?' The group conversed amongst themselves in the fluting tones of Nordic, disdaining the more popular Tamrielic while within the boundaries of their homeland out of a mixture of pride and the desire to keep their topics obscured from the ears of any Legionnaires curious enough to try and get within earshot. Ragnar breathed on his spoonful of stew to cool it, enjoying the taste before answering with a hum.

'We'll likely wake at false dawn if those Legion types stick to their habits, but it's only a few hours' hike now.' A smile broke his features. 'I can almost taste Vilod's mead again. He mixes juniper berries with it. Taste of Sovngarde on Nirn if ever it came here.' Siri nodded emphatically, having grown up in the settlement and knowing precisely what the warrior spoke of.

'He speaks truth, though I'd settle for not having to follow those stinking Imperial pigs over paradise right now,' the younger woman said, a chorus of chuckles and jeers returning the sympathy from the others. Even through their good humour, Björn kept a watchful eye on their surrounds, joined by Ragnar and occasionally the twins. The younger warrior finished his meal first, scratching at his beard as he got up to clean his dish and spoon in the snow, setting both aside when done before taking hold of his axe and blanket, as well as one of the remaining heels of bread. A few snowflakes had started to fall lazily, though he'd little doubt that more would come before the sun rose again.

'I'll take first watch,' he said, setting himself at the very edge of the light and wrapping himself in the furs. Björn joined him when he'd finished his own meal, the two sharing a companionable silence borne of countless long nights spent similarly.

'What do you plan to do when we are finished, Ragnar? There's little call for mercenaries where you're headed,' he asked after a long while. The question itself didn't irk the younger man as much as the answer, but Björn was probably the only person he hid nothing from. That notwithstanding, he didn't reply for several minutes as he wrestled with it internally.

'I received a letter some time ago from... an old friend, telling me that my father died. I have his affairs to settle.' It was more than any of the rest of their group would get, and it was enough to satisfy Björn's curiosity for the time being. He knew how difficult it was for Ragnar to share anything about his past, moreso the topic of his father. More silence followed as the others turned in for the night, the fire snapping quietly. The scene was a smaller version of the Imperial camp further up the road, host to a greater number of larger fires and sleeping soldiers.

'Get some sleep, Björn. We still have distance to cover tomorrow.' His friend and mentor nodded, clapping him on the shoulder before going to his bedroll. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled and was answered moments later by her pack. The sounds of sleeping Skyrim surrounded them all and brought a measure of comfort to Ragnar.

It was good to be home.

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**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed the read. Comments and reviews are always welcome, but please be constructive with your criticism. Mean-spiritedness will not be tolerated.


	2. Apocalypse

**A/N: **So here's the official first chapter. Not much to say, aside from the obvious fact that the main character doesn't start out as a criminal. It's just not how I envisioned him. That said, I hope you readers enjoy. Standard disclaimer applies: the Elder Scrolls universe is property of Bethesda, and I only own my characters.

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Of Legends Born

A Skyrim fanfic

Chapter I: Apocalypse

Apocalypse: a prophetic revelation, especially concerning a cataclysm in which the forces of good permanently triumph over the force of evil; any revelation or prophecy; any universal or widespread destruction or disaster.

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**Helgen, Falkreath Hold, Skyrim Province**

_17 Last Seed, 4E 201_

The morning was chill as the convoy moved slowly down the mountain trail, a light gust carrying the clopping of hooves and creak of wagons. It was a prisoner transport, by the look of it, Legion soldiers on both foot and horseback keeping hawk-like watch over the group of Stormcloaks in their charge. At their head rode an older, grey-haired man, his highly detailed armour bespeaking the rank of general, accompanied by a tall and fair woman in heavy Legion plate who was no doubt his second. Among the soldiers were a few civilians: a young man who was richly garbed and looking completely bored, and a young woman on a chestnut mare who was closely accompanied by a Legionnaire. Some distance behind the train, a group of six Nords trod on wearily, their clothes travel-stained. That did not, however, prevent them from dropping their guard: Despite their fatigue, they paid constant attention to the environment around them, hands readily on the grips of their weapons in case of the slightest hint of danger. It was a stark contrast to the Imperials, who continued on without concern to their surrounds, feeling safe despite traversing the wilds. A small blob of grey and white distinguished itself out of the forest ahead of them. Within twenty minutes it had grown into a walled holdfast, riders galloping ahead of them to announce the presence of Maximus Tullius, Legion General, transporting Ulfric Stormcloak for execution.

Ragnar and his group trudged to the gate and were challenged. Apparently, following an Imperial Legion warband did not grant the same level of trust as being part of one.

'Who goes there?' the sentry called out. The Nords stopped, the few wearing hoods letting them fall down to reveal their faces. Their leader's tattooed visage tilted back to look up at the watchmen keeping eye with ready bows on them. His stomach twisted in a slight grimace: The bastard had asked in Cyrodiilic, some fresh-faced youth straight out of the Imperial Province by the sound of him. Despite his proficiency with the language, the mercenary found his own native tongue far more preferable.

'I am Ragnar Eiriksson, and these are my companions; Björn, Falda, Hati, Sköll, and Siri. We are passing through on our way east,' he replied. The boy on the ramparts sniffed and looked down his nose at them.

'What business have you here?'

'Food, rest, and the replenishment of our supplies.' Was he really going to stand up there and ask questions all day? They were clearly fighters by their appearance, yes, but it was no reason to distrust them.

Gods-damned Imperials...

After a few moments' more consideration, the officer waved them through, an opportunity which the road-weary Nords took advantage of before the gates rumbled together and were barred. The sight of the inside of the settlement lifted their hearts, happy smiles splitting their faces all around. Siri was quick to run through the streets towards her family home while the rest continued towards the inn. When they reached the general store, they stopped, treated to the sight of the Imperials unloading the prisoner carts and herding them over to a nearby headsman. Ragnar's lip curled in distaste and he spat over the railing onto the street. He didn't particularly support the way the Stormcloaks were going about things, but neither did he condone the blatant misconduct of the Imps, either. No trial, just a death sentence, because men and women chose to stand and fight for their values instead of submit.

Björn's presence next to him was heard more than sensed, the wheels turning in the man's head as he watched his friend.

'No good would come of you getting mixed up in it, Ragnar...' The younger man seethed quietly, fingers gripping the rail hard.

'It is the way that this is playing out that irritates me. Nothing fair about it, no chance for them to defend themselves. It is not right, Björn!' The man hummed and nodded, thinking on his answer a moment.

'You are right. But there is more to the scene in front of us than the Legion executing a rebellious jarl. Think on this: Would the General Tullius, who is known for strict adherence to law and order, comport himself this way?' Ragnar's brow furrowed, head grudgingly shaking a negative.

'He would not. But he was speaking with an elf earlier, one of the Thalmor's agents...' The implications of the statement sharpened the younger man's gaze considerably, eyes narrowing in displeasure as much as thought. The warband had encountered plenty of the arrogant high elves during their travels across Tamriel, giving them an understanding of how things worked in the cutthroat world of the Altmer courts.

'Elves...' Ragnar spat again in anger and pushed himself off the rail. Across the square, the first Stormcloak died unceremoniously, striding to his death unafraid and smiling up at the executioner. That grin stayed on his face as his head bounced down into the crate positioned to catch it. Some of the townsfolk jeered, the Stormcloaks hurled insults, and the convoy captain picked out the next victim. And then there was the sound of something the likes of which no-one had ever heard, perhaps some sort of animal. The confusion that gripped the townsfolk didn't deter the Legion officer, her voice steely as she reminded the prisoner of his imminent death. Proud Nord that she was, the Stormcloak strode forward, smiling as her compatriot had before her and going to her knees readily.

The strange cry sounded again, though it was more akin to a roar now and far closer than it had been previously. As one, Stormcloaks and Imperials recoiled, the latter drawing arms against the encroaching foe. But their enemy was one that they'd only seen in murals and ancient depictions from Skyrim's far past. A black reptilian form crashed loudly into a keep tower, the impact sending out a wave that made the executioner fall to his knees. With an earth-shattering roar the skies opened, fire raining down on the holdfast before the dragon- for it could be nothing else- took to the skies. But before it did, it glanced over at the inn and looked Ragnar dead in the eyes. He thought it was just an illusion, but his mind knew better, recognised the vast intelligence that gazed at him maliciously, and Ragnar Eiriksson knew a fear that he'd not felt in ages.

'To the tower, MOVE!' He didn't even bother reaching for his rucksack, just grabbed Falda and Hati and shoved them in the direction he wanted them to go while Björn led Sköll. Even though the distance was short, it was still a mad scramble to the other side of the square, and not without consequence: Hati's leg was struck by one of the flaming rocks as it bounced off the cobblestones. The man cried out and stumbled, caught immediately by his younger brother and carried forward through the tower portal, followed immediately by the others. Once inside, Sköll helped his twin hobble over to the steps and set him down. There were a few Stormcloaks inside, a pair laying in spreading pools of their own blood as another of their number watched them die. Across from the circular stairwell that wound it's way up the tower, a blond Nord undid the gag and bindings of Jarl Stormcloak and tossed them aside.

'Jarl Ulfric, are you alright? Did that thing harm you?' he asked. His lord batted a hand irritably aside.

'Quit worrying about me, Ralof, I'm fine.' Properly chastised, the soldier nodded and stood attentively. 'If you want to fret over anything, let it be the dragon outside.'

'Dragon? Like the old legends?That can't be possible,' the soldier stated incredulously, face marked with fearful denial. Ragnar's vibrant blue orbs rolled at his stupidity.

'Are you blind, man? You saw it with your own two eyes,' he said scornfully. 'We all did, so quit acting like you're dreaming.' Ralof whirled angrily, body poised to lash out in his vitriol, but the entire ground shook again along with the tower and caused everyone who was standing to stagger a bit. The Jarl was the first to recover, taking control of the situation with an efficiency born of decades of practise.

'This place is a deathtrap. Up through the tower, now! Move!' he boomed. His words, while no doubt conjuring instant loyalty in his minions, only motivated Ragnar and his group out of simple pragmatism. The mercenary led the way up, Hati still limping but able to move under his own power, Sköll's bow drawn in preparation and keeping to his double like a blonde shadow. Falda was a bare pace behind, scanning ahead, while Björn brought up the rear. All five worried momentarily for Siri, but knew that they were unable to do anything for her at this point and so focussed on pressing forward. Ragnar's vision crested past the middle floor of the tower and saw the fallen rubble blocking their way, another Stormcloak working to build a path.

'Just a bit more...' he said, and the group could see that he'd nearly managed to build a route to the remaining steps. Some sixth sense, possibly instinct or maybe even dumb luck, warned the Nord of imminent and grievous danger and brought him to a screeching halt on the stairs, body taut and stretching out with each of his senses. Even still, he only just barely caught the rushing gust from outside.

'BACK!' he shouted, using his body to push Hati down the way they'd come while giving the wounded man a stable grip on his shoulder. This saved them all when the dragon's black, serpentine head came smashing through the brick and mortar bare feet from where they stood, chunks of debris scattering and bludgeoning the unprepared Stormcloak to the ground. He lay there, groaning weakly and struggling to move. Not content with simply pulverising the Nord's body, the dragon inhaled deeply before opening its maw far wider than should have been possible. In that moment, Ragnar could have sworn he heard a malevolent voice speaking...

'_YOL TOOR SHUL_!' Any curiosity he held on the matter was blasted away by the scorching gout of flame and heat that burst forth from the black devil's mouth, turning the soldier into a charred mockery of a corpse. The stench of burning flesh was nearly overpowering, crashing over the Nords hard enough to make them all gag and recoil in unison. When the dragon spoke this time, they all heard it.

'_PAHLOK JOORRE! HIN KAH FEN KOS BONAAR!_' The voice thundered through the small space, making the group reel once more, in pain, before the immense creature pushed off of its perch and took a large chunk of the exterior masonry in the process. Without the dragon to block the hole any longer, the wind brought the heavy reek of more smouldering remains and thick smoke, alongside the cries of the dying and wounded. Recovering enough to move, Ragnar skipped up the last of the stairs and peered out of the tower's gaping wound, followed quickly by the others. As soldiers of fortune, every one of the warband had seen their fair share of death and destruction, but it wasn't nearly enough to prepare them for the vista that greeted them as they gazed over Helgen's conflagrated remains.

The results of the black dragon's assault were closer to that of an army sacking and plundering a city than what a single beast should be capable of. Buildings were gutted from the roof-down, some aught more than timber skeletons that blazed brightly in the morning air; rubble and corpses choked the streets, hindering any of the few townsfolk still foolish enough to move around in the open; the keep, barely visible past all the detritus and bearing plenty of scars itself, was apparently the last stand for the beleaguered Legion if the amount of arrows and spells that hissed through the air was any indication. But still, it was the screams of pain and the cries of terror that were the worst, for all of them. Ragnar absorbed the scene in the span of a few heartbeats, shuttering away the few parts of his mind conditioned to react in horror that had already not been and fell fully into his battle trance. Salient details for their immediate survival stood out in stark contrast, and those were what he focussed on. A short distance away was the inn, enough of its ceiling ripped away to provide an ample space to land and very much close enough to be reached by a jump.

Ragnar pointed out across the open space. 'Look, the inn. We can make it if we jump. Hati, come on, I'll jump with you.' Sköll's jaw tightened minutely, but he wasn't about to argue when Oblivion had come to Helgen and was tearing it apart, instead assisting the two with their run by giving a heavy push to ensure their safe passage. The elder twin gave a short cry of pain when he landed, though that didn't stop him from getting back up to his feet as quickly as possible and hobbling out of the way for his brother who followed at a moment's notice. They didn't wait for the others, knowing they'd be joined promptly and using the time to get downstairs as quickly as possible. Ragnar poked his head out warily, scanning the skies for any sign of the dragon before leading his people out. Cowering against the groaning remains of a house across the street from them was the cloaked girl he'd seen travelling with the train, seen to by the same legionnaire who'd been walking her horse and an old man. The elder was jabbering something and pointing.

'Hadvar, the boy. Help him!' With a colourful curse and two steps, he was out in the street and beckoning wildly.

'Haming, get over here! Run for it!' the soldier instructed, his features stricken with fear despite the calm steadiness of his voice. Further up the street, Ragnar saw a young boy who'd been trying desperately to drag a full-grown man to safety, presumably his sire. At Hadvar's orders, and weak urging from the man in his grip, the tear-streaked boy let go, mouthed some words, and then sprinted for safety. It wasn't a moment too soon, either, as a black shape dropped down from the heavens above and slammed into the ground, wings flared to break its momentum as talons gouged deep furrows into the cobbled earth. Folding immensely long digits to support its weight on its wrists, the dragon leaned forward and closed on the downed man in a single movement, gaze fixated on its prey. A random sweep of its spiked tail took out the last support of a home and sent it crashing to the ground. There were whispers at the edge of Ragnar's hearing once again as the beast's maw opened wide, then the ear-shattering roar as flame purged the man from existence.

'Father!' Haming cried, held back only by the eldern man's efforts. Hadvar grit his teeth in anger and looked on a moment longer than was necessary, hand clenching his sword handle tightly, then wheeled to face the oncoming warband cautiously. The draft from the serpent's initial downbeat scattered dust and embers, strong enough to push the wall covering the humans to a dangerous list.

'Steady, kinsman,' Ragnar called out, hands held away from his weapons' hafts in a momentary offer of peace before the soldier nodded and relaxed his guard. A hand thumping twice on his chest indicated the mercenary. 'Ragnar,' he said in greeting. Hadvar gave no affirmation he'd even heard.

'There's no time for introductions; we have to get to the keep. Gunnar, take care of the boy and get him out of here. Fleur, come, we're going.' The way his face softened when he turned to the Breton would have intrigued others under different circumstances, but this was hardly the time or place. Carefully, the girl reached out, finding Hadvar's much larger mitt easily and pulling herself close against him. He slipped the arm around her waist, leaned close to whisper something into her ear, and then threw a glance at the warband to indicate for them to follow.

'Stick close,' was all the warning they had before he moved out, taking care to account for the woman on his hip as they dashed to cover, ducking through an alleyway to get around a pile of wreckage that blocked the street. An immense gust and beating of wings, combined with Ragnar's steadily buzzing senses, set off his instincts, causing him to grab Hadvar with his free hand and juke left to the wall, pulling Hati with him. The others followed suit, barely getting to safety in time before there was another impact directly above them and black wings caged the first four. Despite the sudden re-appearance of their foe and the fear it elicited, they all remained silent through another bout of dragonfire and the dying screams of the man it consumed, carefully crawling out of hiding after it had alighted again. Upon entering the square in front of the gate they'd passed through barely half an hour before, they were greeted with the sight of the remaining Legion and town garrison fighting desperately despite the losing odds.

A piercing call of 'Hadvar!' got their attention, the soldier immediately making a beeline for Tullius and pulling his charge along haphazardly. Ragnar and the Nords stuck to his heels, managing to weave through the chaotic throng of archers and mages chucking their ordnance with the type of reckless abandon that could only be induced in a life-threatening situation. Tullius took his attention off the battle for a moment to run a practised eye over the ragged group that approached him before belting out instructions again. 'Into the keep, soldier! Get these people out of the town, we're retreating. Decimus, come on.'

'Yes sir,' the Nord's thick accent replied, dragging off the young girl in his arms without wasting a breath. The air was filled with the constant hiss of flames and arrows, though they did little more than spatter against the thick, spiky scales of the dragon when any one of them managed to hit. Ragnar's eyes were glued to the sky, tracking the black behemoth as he led the others behind Hadvar, only able to stare in horror as it swooped down and snatched one of the archers stationed on the keep's courtyard wall, a powerful downbeat sending it straight back into the air where it let the woman go. Her scream lasted through freefall until she impacted the ground with a sickening splat.

'Ralof, you traitor!' The Nord let his eyes fall down to earth, where he saw the Stormcloak that had freed jarl Ulfric in the tower. How he'd gotten ahead of them was a mystery, but what was more concerning to the mercenary was the way that Hadvar held himself, ready for imminent combat with the man. 'Get out of our way!' The blond Nord stood his ground, axe drawn but his grip just below the head in a simple travel-carry.

'The jarl's already gone, Hadvar. The rest of us are escaping, so don't bother trying to catch us.' The legionnaire spat on the ground and sheathed his blade, arm going around Fleur again in a manner probably more rough than he'd intended, but the Breton said nothing on the matter. 'Whatever. Just go, and don't foul my sight again or I'll kill you.' The matter settled, he led them all into the keep, the doors shutting to the dragon speaking again.

'_ZU'U ALDUIN, ZU'U LOST DAAL, AHRK DAR LEIN LOS DII!_'

Most of the torches were unlit, casting the room in a dim glow that illuminated the cloud of dust particles floating around. Hadvar let go of the Breton under his arm as the rest of the Nords filed in and closed the doors, busying himself by taking a quick look around. They were in the barracks, from the look of it, beds lined up in neat and orderly rows on either wall and several wall-mounted racks housing weapons. A sudden noise behind them made everyone save Fleur spin and draw their weapons, standing at the ready against a rather surprised individual: The young Imperial that they'd seen riding with Tullius.

'Who are you?' Ragnar asked, sword held up as he took a step to close the distance and nestle the pointed tip in the hollow of the stranger's throat. Heterochromatic blue and green eyes took in the situation rather calmly for someone who'd yet to grow a proper beard, though that may have simply been due to his stunted Imperial heritage. Thin-blooded milk drinkers, the lot of 'em...

'Decimus?' It was Hadvar who'd spoken, looking incredulous and more than a little annoyed. 'Oh, by the gods...' He groaned and turned away, stalking off a short distance as any patience he might have possessed evapourated in the face of dealing with the man's impulsiveness. 'You deal with him.' Silence, broken by the occasional roar or scream.

'Well, speak. Who are you, and... why should I care?' Ragnar asked after a moment, feeling the nasty aftertaste he always experienced after speaking Tamrielic. No doubt trying to look imposing in his luxurious robes, the boy drew himself up and crossed his arms over his chest.

'Decimus Tullius, and yes, before you ask, I'm the General's nephew.' That particular detail raised a few eyebrows, Falda's lip curling in a sneer. Ragnar twisted at the hips a bit to address his fellows. 'Am I the only one who's noticed he doesn't have any facial hair?' They chuckled, Björn making a choice comment regarding whether or not he was a eunuch that brought more laughs out of their bellies and left the lad in confusion, as he clearly didn't speak Nordic.

'Why are you here? Shouldn't you be running off with your uncle?' The taunt didn't have quite the needling effect Ragnar thought it would have, eliciting full-blown anger instead of ruffling his feathers.

'My uncle can suck mud for all I care! I'm tired of him controlling my life, telling me where to go, how to act, what to say. I need to get away from him, and my best chance at that is with you.' A round of groans went up from the others as one, several also rolling their eyes in their exasperation. Ragnar shook his head, withdrawing his blade from the Imperial's throat and sheathing it with a sneer, leaning in close to whisper menacingly.

'Follow if you want, little cub. But if your actions endanger my friends in the slightest, I'll tear your heart out and make you eat it.' Cowed appropriately, Decimus gulped and nodded in the face of Ragnar's potential fury. The sight pleased Hadvar, who returned from his silent vigil.

'Come on, let's see if there's any potions around we can use to take care of those wounds,' he said, making to move away but stopped by Fleur's hand on his arm. When the girl spoke, her voice lacked the thick Bretonian accent one would have expected, instead sounding much lighter and more lilting and speaking Nordic very fluently.

'Don't bother, I am capable of mending their injuries.' It was the first time Ragnar had heard her speak, and he was surprised by her youth: She couldn't be a day over eighteen or he was a beardless boy. Rubbing her arms nervously, Fleur asked that Hati be placed so she could have an unobstructed view of his leg, rolling the blood-soaked lower half of his breeches' leg up and recoiled visibly as her fingers touched the broken bone spur that had stabbed through his skin.

'_Miséricordieux Mara..._' she said quietly. Taking a few gulping breaths of air to steady her shaking hands, the girl knelt to probe a bit more. Hati stiffened, teeth grinding together despite her efforts to be as gentle as possible. After a few moments the Breton spoke again.

'The bone will have to be set before I can do anything...' Her Nord patient just nodded, gripping Sköll tightly in anticipation of the pain to come as Björn steadied his other side and Falda moved to help Fleur. Ragnar left them to it, going to the far side of the barracks where Hadvar was to explore and get a better idea of their surroundings.

'We need to keep moving. How deep does the keep go?' he asked, the seriousness of their situation punctuated by a sudden rumble and draconic roar from outside. Hadvar glanced up, the gesture pointless considering that they were inside but still done instinctually nonetheless, then looked back at Ragnar. 'I wasn't stationed here, so I'm not sure, but-' Hati's cry of pain and the disgusting noise of his bone being set interrupted them momentarily, a look back showing Fleur at work with a warm glow between her hands. Decimus was grimacing and keeping his distance from the whole ordeal.

'But this was supposed to be the Imperial Second Chain because of it's strategic location,' he continued. 'It should have an extensive dungeon system, maybe even an emergency escape route that leads to the outside world. We'll continue on when Fleur's taken care of the rest.' Their conversation finished for the moment, the two Nords rejoined the others, Hati looking ashen but reassuring Ragnar that he was feeling better. The older man smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder as he leaned close.

'Just watch out for any more rocks, hey?' They all shared a chuckle before Hati was helped to his feet, a groan indicating that the muscle was still tender. 'Maybe next time we won't have a dragon nipping at our heels to compound the issue.'

The rest of the injuries were relatively minor, given that they'd just survived an encounter with a dragon. Falda, however, held a worried look that Ragnar understood.

'We'll find Siri,' was all he said, a companionable hand placed on her arm. She said nothing, just exhaled and nodded with grim eyes, knowing that they couldn't necessarily expect that she would be alive when it happened. For all the other woman's brashness, she was still part of their little family.

'Hadvar, we're ready,' came Fleur's statement, and in short order everybody had gathered themselves and were moving through the keep. They could still hear the dragon ravaging what was left of Helgen, the sounds of battle audible even through the thick stone walls. It spurred them on. Coming to a barred threshold, Ragnar saw no way further until Hadvar pulled a lever on the wall and the grating began to retract into the ceiling with surprising silence. It made the mercenary feel momentarily stupid for having missed such an obvious detail, but he did nothing beyond ready himself to continue moving onwards. An unfamiliar feminine voice threw him off slightly.

'By Ysmir, I know we have to move! Just let me catch my breath.' Hadvar's head had snapped forward, and looking through the grating they could see a pair of humanoid profiles off to the right, dressed in leather armour with blue tunics.

'Stormcloaks. Let me try to talk them down,' the legionnaire insisted. Ragnar chuffed and looked at him like he was crazy but didn't stop him from proceeding. 'Trying to impress the gods? Well, it's your life. Hope you're ready for Sovngarde.' Without any ado whatsoever, Hadvar stepped into the circular antechamber beyond. _This_ the Stormcloaks caught, both of them leaping to their feet and drawing their weapons despite the placating hands Hadvar held out to them.

'Hold on. We just want to talk.' It was pointless, however, as the soldiers were dead-set on fighting. Hefting his greatsword easily, the closer of the two charged at the legionnaire with a hearty warcry.

'VICTORY OR SOVNGARDE!' There was going to be no distinction between any of them, as his female companion shouted just as ferociously and swung at Ragnar with her shorter blade. The mercenary had foreseen this, drawing his sword and his axe with enough time to parry easily. Steel clashed and screeched, her shield coming around in a wild blow aimed at his head that he ducked under easily, lashing out with his left fist and connecting with her elbow. There was a satisfying crunch as he destroyed the joint, though it didn't distract her for long as she tucked the damaged limb against her body to keep the shield facing outward. It restricted her ability to strike back but kept her body protected all the same, and she followed up with a series of short thrusts that Ragnar smacked away, finally hooking the crossguard under the head of his axe and pulling forcefully. The manoeuvre pulled her off-balance, falling forward onto her shield and damaged limb with a loud cry of pain. Her suffering didn't last long, the Nord recovering easily and swinging down forcefully with his sword to decapitate her. Off to his left, Hadvar had had equal success with the other 'cloak, sword blade a gory mess that he cleaned on the fallen's blue tunic before sheathing it as he cast a gaze over the other Nord's kill and nodded in approval.

'Nice work. Messy, though.'

Catching his wind, Ragnar put his weapons away before shrugging. 'I did what had to be done. As did you.' Continuing forward, he tested the far door only to find it locked. Fortunately, Hadvar produced the key, slipping it in and turning to twist the guts open, allowing the group access to the dungeons beyond.

'Nice trick,' Ragnar observed. 'Can you do that for any door we come across, or are you only good for the one time?' The double entendre didn't go unnoticed, though the other man simply smiled and went on ahead of the others, leading and, potentially, dying first if there was a collapse. Fleur kept a hand on the Nord's muscular upper arm but was otherwise unassisted. A quick look over his friends told Ragnar that they were all in fair condition, having stayed out of the fighting, so he sent Falda up ahead to assist Hadvar should they run across anything hostile.

Going down a level by following the ramp, the two people leading them saw hazy outlines through the dust and readied their weapons, though it was an unnecessary gesture as the keep rumbled again, streams of dust cascading down as the very ground shook and the tunnel ceiling collapsed with enough force to send Fleur to her knees despite the grip she held on Hadvar.

'Gods!' Ragnar breathed, struggling to retain his footing before he steadied. Sköll whistled at the pile, their way forward now completely blocked.

'Guess Mara was keeping her eye on you, kinsman,' he remarked, turning towards Hadvar who had blanched noticeably, moreso than his usual pale tone. Hati smirked and laughed quietly, indicating to his brother to accompany him as they opened a doorway that miraculously hadn't been covered by the debris, leaning back out after a moment and holding up a pair of fingers to indicate the number of opponents in the next room. Arrows nocked, he and his twin moved forward stealthily, the twang of their bows barely noticeable in the stillness. A few seconds later the others were motioned inside, noting the motionless Stormcloaks laying in spreading pools of their own blood.

'An old storeroom,' Hadvar observed. 'See if there's anything we can ta-' He stopped suddenly when Falda rushed past, physically jarring him in her haste. Ragnar looked over to see what the commotion was, a small sound of fear and surprise escaping his throat before he too sprinted past the Legion soldier, the realisation spreading through the rest of the warband with icy veins around their hearts. Decimus swallowed at the sight.

'_Siri!_' The girl was propped up against a wall and had been beaten mercilessly, her face swollen from the amount of bruising she'd sustained and rivulets of blood leaking from the corner of her mouth and either nostril. There were a number of cuts in her leather armour, and the right sleeve was entirely singed away, the whole arm covered in disgustingly bright burns. She groaned weakly, one eye beaten shut and the other fluttering open occasionally as Falda cradled her head in her arms. Emotion, normally kept at a minimum amongst them, was suddenly thick and heavy in the confined space as her five comrades knelt around her in silent, bristling worry. Ragnar reacted first, turning to Fleur with a look as cold and hard as ebony that, despite its intensity, was not meant for her. The Breton seemed to flinch, in any case.

'Help her, woman...' His voice was unusually soft, carrying through the air clearly. She needed no encouragement, letting go of Hadvar to lay kind hands on Siri, golden warmth already pouring forth into the young woman's battered body. None of her brothers or sister moved, watching anxiously as cuts knit, burns mended, and bruises receded though it took several minutes and a goodly portion of the young mage's energy: Fleur was trembling noticeably and had difficulty standing on her own. Fingers clasped Hadvar's thick bicep once more, hard enough to turn her knuckles white. If Hadvar felt any discomfort then he kept it under wraps. Siri's breathing had levelled out, eyes slightly open as she came to and didn't have to worry about overwhelming pain. Ragnar slid forward, hands taking hold of her head and bumping his brow to hers gently.

'Are you alright, sister?' She nodded a gentle affirmative, then was helped to her feet by her battle siblings. 'What happened?' Falda's voice carried an acerbic edge, eyes darting over to the dead men in the silent hope that they'd been the cause of her problems, and were thus already dead and their debt repaid in full. A low shiver rasped up Siri's spine, some seconds passing before she answered.

'I got separated from my family when the dragon attacked, and ran here to the keep. I had no problems until I got to this room: Some 'cloaks jumped me, thinking I was either an out of uniform guard or Imperial spy. Nothing I said would change their minds, so they decided to have their fun. Most of them went on ahead, but those two over there remained behind to work me over some more.' She spat on the bodies and kicked one in the head. 'I curse them. May they never enter Sovngarde.' The force of her venom startled even the others, though it was not something they frowned upon, feeling exactly the same way because of how she'd been treated. Ragnar nodded once, hands grasping tighter for a moment as he placed a kiss on her brow and then parted, grip moving to her shoulders as he locked his vibrant gaze on hers.

'Let's go give those bastards their just desserts, neh? Gods know they deserve what's coming to them.' His anger was barely contained, battle lust swimming in his eyes and mirrored in Siri's. She desired their deaths just as much as the others did, and after making sure that she could stand on her own power they dispersed for a few moments to scour the room for supplies, a task made easier by the discovery of several spare rucksacks that they filled quickly.

Soon enough they were ready, lean and hungry for the blood of those that had wronged one of their number.

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**A/N: **Yeah, I stopped mostly because I got sick of writing out this long spiel regarding Helgen's destruction, and have decided to split it up into at least two parts. Next chapter shall be forthcoming soon enough. Hope you enjoyed the read, please leave a review if you feel the impulse.

Dragon language translations:

Yol Toor Shul: Fire Inferno Sun - Fire Breath

Pahlok joorre! Hin kah fen kos bonaar! - Arrogant mortals! Your pride will be humbled!

Zu'u Alduin, zu'u lost daal, ahrk daar lein los dii! - I am Alduin, I have returned, and this world is mine!


	3. Lamentations and Flight

**A/N:** I just blitzed through this after starting at 9 in the morning. Surprised myself with the speed I finished it in, but I'm still very happy with the overall arch. As ever, I don't own Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls universe, just my characters. Enjoy.

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Of Legends Born

A Skyrim fanfic

Chapter II: Lamentations and Flight

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Lamentation – The act of lamenting or expressing grief; a lament; mourning

Flight – An act or instance of fleeing or hasty departure

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**Helgen, Falkreath Hold, Skyrim**

_17 Last Seed, 4E 201_

Thunder rumbled through the fortress's carven bones, a deep _thoom_ that everyone, Nord, Imperial, and Breton alike, felt shiver up into their feet. Clapping Siri on the shoulder once more, Ragnar sent Hati and Sköll ahead on point, following with Björn and the young woman while Falda assisted Hadvar in bringing up the rear: Siri's warning about hostile Stormcloaks deeper in the keep's bowels had them all wary. Despite that, the warband was out for blood and vengeance for the grievous attentions that had been inflicted on their sister. Fleur clung to Hadvar's arm, though it was seemingly more for the comfort that his presence brought than anything, and Decimus managed to keep up with the impressive pace though he was at the very end. Tying the rucksacks that they'd liberated from storage and filled with anything they could grab tightly to their bodies, the warband made little excess noise as the whole group set out again. Now, everyone moved with weapons drawn, their intent clear in the smooth, predatory strides and dark gleams of their eyes. Hati pulled them all short at the sounds of battle and crackle of energy. Hadvar groaned slightly.

'The torture room. Gods...' Frowns split the others' faces but they said nothing, only descended the steps to the horrible room beyond. Two men dressed in Legion leathers, no doubt the dungeon's inhabitants, fought desperately against a pair of Stormcloaks, both sides well matched. One of the 'cloaks, hefting an axe and shimmering iron shield, faced off against a wrinkly old Imperial that constantly threw lashing sheets of lightning at her. The magick parted and flowed around her shield, harmlessly dissipated as she closed in. Desperate, the torturer abandoned any pretense at a display of power and drew the dagger at his hip, the moment of attention it took off of her giving her the opening to step in and bash his head with her shield. Stunned, the man stumbled back and fell with a grunt, then screamed as she began to hack at him with her weapon. Hadvar made to let go of Fleur and dash forward, but was stopped by Ragnar, struggling against the unexpected grip.

'They're killing him!' The mercenary's eyes were unsympathetic.

'Look at the room he occupies: He's earned his fate. Besides, he should have fought harder if he did not want to die.' Hadvar's frame tensed, Björn clamping his limbs around the legionnaire's to stop him from doing anything rash. Beyond glaring profusely at Ragnar and tightening his jaw muscles in fury, Hadvar knew the futility of fighting and so did nothing but watch the scene beyond. The other Legion type, presumably the torturer's assistant, heard the other's cries and managed to get a distracting cheap shot in before disengaging and running over, then bashing the Stormcloak's head in with his mace. She dropped limply, body twitching under the brutal assault of several more hits that spattered blood and grey matter on the walls. He didn't see his prior opponent drag himself to his feet, pulling out a knife as he stumbled over and got close enough to stab the Imperial's neck. The assistant seized up in pain, teeth grit as he spun about and smashed his weapon into the man's face before dropping to his knees and then collapsing. His death rattle echoed for a few moments. Nothing moved. Björn let go of Hadvar, who still stared chillingly at Ragnar.

'Why did you stop me?' The Nord shrugged.

'Not our fight.' Hati and Sköll were sent ahead while the rest stripped the room bare of valuables and supplies, managing to get one of the cages open and taking what they could before moving on. Hadvar's gaze darkened but there was little he could do beyond maintain his anger. Heading deeper into the earth, Ragnar slowed and stopped carefully when he saw Sköll motioning at him up ahead, dropping into a lower crouch as he slid forward and came to a kneel by his friend.

'Counted five of the bastards in the room ahead. Hati thinks he heard a sixth but we couldn't see anything without exposing ourselves,' he reported. Ragnar nodded, the others gathering around him as he pivoted away from the earth wall to think momentarily, then snared Siri's icy gaze with his own vibrant hues. 'What say you, sister? How do we handle this?' The question was not unexpected, and it was clear that she'd been doing some thinking on the matter, licking her lips in anticipation before answering.

'There's one bitch in particular, scrawny little whip of a rat with a glass eye and nasty cuts all over her face. I want her alive. Kill the rest.' The fire that gleamed in her eyes would have cowed other men, but her brothers' and sister's faces all held similar intent, acknowledged with quiet nods. Weapons were readied before Siri charged ahead with a bloodthirsty cry, catching the Stormcloaks by surprise as she slammed into the first one with her shield, knocking the man to the ground with a surprised shout. Her sword rose and fell, his ugly head rolling away before his fellows had come to their senses enough to draw their blades. Ragnar came in right behind her, spotting a pair of foes below him and leaping over the railing that barred his passage, bowling over one painfully but still spinning to his feet and driving his human response to pain away. Bows twanged above him, the result of a marksmanship war between the twins and a group of Stormcloaks on the far side, but the Nord was too busy slashing at his surprised prey to pay much attention. Stabbing his steel blade into the man's gut, Ragnar twisted to look at his second foe and rolled away from his clumsy strike and twisting to his feet as he gripped the haft of his axe with both hands, reared it back until he nearly felt himself lose his balance, and then swung it forward with all his might to send it whistling head-over-end. The weapon impacted with a sickening sound, burying the head deeply into the man's chest as he cried out and fell. Growling and looking around, Ragnar heard Siri shouting something, the shield-maiden making a mad dash to the far side of the room as Hati and Sköll continued their barrage of arrows.

Forcefully ripping both sword and axe from his opponents' bodies, Ragnar left them to bleed out and ran back up to the stone pathways, making sure the fallen 'cloaks were dead as he moved to join Siri. The battle had stopped as quickly as it had started, Falda and Björn keeping a struggling Stormcloak pinned on her knees as Siri paced in front of her with wicked intent. The twins kept wary eyes on their environment as they crossed around with the others. Another shudder went through the keep above, sending streams of silt and dust through the air but doing little to distract the focussed intent of the victorious warband. Siri drew out her knife and toyed with it openly, kneeling down to look the Stormcloak in the eye.

'I owe you a debt of pain, bitch.' All it earned her was a spray of saliva as the prisoner spat in her face, glaring back defiantly. 'Damn your eyes, and damn you all! I will die smiling and knowing I shall awaken in Sovngarde.' At that, Siri's grin turned cruel. She wiped herself off and was silent a moment, then reared her arm back and struck the Stormcloak in the face several times, her knuckle studs tearing open a few seeping wounds that dribbled rivulets of blood. The 'cloak bore it all silently until the last punch, when Siri twisted her feet to gain a bit of height as leverage and then dropped down to crunch her fist into the woman's nose, causing her to scream and nearly collapse in pain. Björn and Falda hefted her back to an upright position, the Nords neither jeering nor insulting as the grim business was carried out. Ragnar watched with an intense quietness from behind his battle-sister. Hadvar led Fleur to the passageway ahead, trying to keep the sensitive girl from too much blood, no doubt. Decimus followed mutely, maintaining the silence that had set into him since joining the group.

'No no no, there will be no warrior's death for you, no waking under the bright skies nor challenging Tsun Shield-Thane to cross the whalebone bridge. You will die screaming and struggling for breath, until your lungs are choked and your death rattle pleases my ears. I curse you in Shor's name and pray that he bar you entrance to Sovngarde.' The Stormcloak looked up in horror, her bloodied face and nose momentarily forgotten as the sheer terror of what had been said sunk in. 'No...' It was a small noise, barely qualifying as a plea. She was ignored, large pieces of rubble being collected by the others as her hands were bound behind her back and then tied to her ankles. Without regard for her pain, Björn and Falda picked her up and carried her down to the sluice below, followed by their battle-siblings, and threw her into the run-off. She thrashed violently, bubbles distorting the water's surface as they were carried off, occasionally managing to break the surface and spit out a mouthful of filth before she went back under. It did not take long for the Stormcloak to tire, her flailings lessening in intensity, then stopping altogether. Siri spat at the still form, and they moved on.

Hadvar, Fleur, and Decimus were waiting for them on the far side of a wooden drawbridge that had been lowered. As Ragnar was crossing, a sudden shift caught his attention, the increasing volume awakening the realisation that there was about to be a cave-in directly above him. He grabbed Björn and sprinted across, followed by Falda. The others weren't going to make it, until Sköll shoved his brother forward forcefully just as the ceiling came crashing down on him and Siri. Silence, the sound of rocks settling in the incredulous aftermath.

'No!' Hati limped forward, no longer able to ignore the soreness that had been plaguing him since his leg had been fixed, though his movements were fuelled by a fresh surge of adrenalin. The man clawed at the rubble, trying desperately to free the metric tons of rock and get to his sibling, gibbering with denial. Ragnar stepped forward.

'Hati.' The hand he placed on the other's shoulder was shoved off with a fierce snarl, so he spun Hati around and shoved him against the rock collapse forcefully. 'Hati! He's gone.' The young hunter's face twisted in pain, trying to push away the grief and failing utterly. 'You'll see him again in Sovngarde, brother. But we have to worry about the living.' Breathing heavily, the blond Nord was barely able to nod, numb fingers finding his bow when Ragnar let him be. 'Falda, with me. Björn, keep an eye on him. We need to keep moving.' His remaining sister said nothing, only joined him after a long glance at Siri and Sköll's impromptu grave, and it was only through a supreme force of will that Ragnar kept the glimmering wetness in his eyes contained. He could not afford to let the rest of his family die.

With heavy hearts they set out again, moving slightly slower, reflexes dulled just a bit as each struggled to bury their laments and keep on moving forward. The passages were twisting, and they continued to follow the run-off from the sluice until they came to an iron-barred grating which yielded to them, a simple pull of a nearby chain making it grind into the ground. Further up ahead the lighting was spotty at best, but Ragnar thought he could make out irregular masses of white. A tendril of warning began crawling around his gut, and so he slowed their column down to allow himself and Falda a better look without giving them away. What he saw brought a grimace to his mouth.

_Spiders_.

He hated the damn things, though they didn't creep him out enough that he was unable to fight them. Giving quiet hand signals to let the others know what they'd found, they again moved forward. Hati seemed to welcome the conflict, stealthily getting into a position in which he could fire freely before loosing an arrow that pierced one spider's abdomen completely, making the thing rear up and keen in pain. At the high-pitched noise, a pair of larger spiders descended from hidden dwelling in the stone ceiling, causing the others to scramble forward madly, Hadvar even leaving Fleur behind to lend his sword arm. Björn waded in with his two-handed greataxe, dispatching one of the smaller spiders with a single blow before he threw himself onto a big one and hacked away with wild bellows. The beast managed to get a hit in on his shoulder, but that didn't deter the burly Nord, using his weapon's haft to shove it away for the distance he needed before the broad axe bit into the chitinous plating of the spider's head with a wet _schhhhlick_. Whatever death throes the creature went into were ignored, Björn pulling out his weapon and looking around to see how the battle went. Ragnar danced around the other large spider, three legs missing and one mandible completely shorn off. Bitterly green-coloured blood spattered the ground underneath it as it struggled to keep up with the warrior's deft movements, though he was content to let it bleed out and simply kept up his tactics. Falda and Hadvar were repeatedly stabbing and bludgeoning the last of the smaller spiders, the one Hati had initially shot riddled with arrows and lying still.

Finally finished with their gruesome task, Hadvar shivered slightly with disgust and wiped his blade off. 'I hate those damn creatures. Too many eyes... It's not right.' Ragnar smirked, throwing the legionnaire a glance.

'What's wrong, Legion? Too scary for a mighty warrior like yourself? Grow some balls and quit whining.' Björn was the only other of the 'band who joined his silent mirth. Hati and Falda's faces remained tight masks that revealed little beyond the coldness of their current attitudes. Fleur was led forward by Decimus, re-attaching herself to Hadvar as they all continued onward. The air was growing colder, though whether that was from their depth beneath the earth or because of an open passage ahead remained to be seen. The question was answered as they crossed a natural stone arch over what was hopefully the sluice run-off from the keep: Hati sniffed, looking around before speaking.

'There's a fresh breeze coming from the outside.' Falda opened her mouth to speak but was hushed by Björn warningly in low tones.

'Quiet. There's a bear up ahead. Look.' He pointed, the others following the line of his finger to a dark patch nestled in a patch of light that leaked in through an opening in the rock face, slowly forming into a ball of fur and fat topped by a blocky, wedge-shaped muzzle. 'Stay quiet,' Ragnar whispered, 'and move slowly. We'll sneak by.' Their passing was swifter than it seemed, though they all held their breath more than once in trepidation when the ursine form shifted in its slumber, hearts hammering in their chests until long after they'd turned the bend out of sight. The appearance of a lit passage and the feeling of fresh air on their faces did wonders, however, speeding their steps until everyone had emerged from the cavern.

Ragnar breathed deeply of Skyrim's glory, taking in the clear mid-morning view as a small smile twitched at his mouth. The beating of leathery wings brought him up short, though, darting into the cover of the trees on the side of the cave mouth as a serpentine blackness swooped past overhead. Long seconds passed by before anyone dared venture back out onto the path leading down the mountain.

'Looks like it's gone,' Falda observed, scanning the forest around them. Hati emerged a few moments later tucking something into a pouch on his rucksack. Turning to look back the way they'd come, Ragnar could see thick, billowing clouds of smoke; the remains of Helgen and all those that had perished within. There would be no songs of glory for them, just mugs raised in silent tribute and teeth gnashed in wailing.

Turning around a few times, Ragnar's senses came alive as he got his bearings, the scenery familiar if distorted by a slightly different point of view than he was used to.

'We're near Riverwood,' he stated, gesturing down the path. 'We keep following this way and we'll make it there in a few hours, around midday.' Hadvar looked at him strangely. 'Where are you from, kinsman? Whiterun? Falkreath?' the soldier asked. A muscle ticked in Ragnar's cheek at the unwelcome question but he controlled his temper.

'I was born in Whiterun, Legion, and that is all you need to know.' One of Hadvar's thick brows arched in unspoken question and he looked like he wanted to press further, but he kept his peace, more due to the pointed look Björn threw him than anything. Quietly hefting his pack, the mercenary set off down the path at an easy gait, the others falling in behind him. Their journey was unfettered, allowing them to keep up a goodly pace though Fleur needed to stop and rest at one point, her fatigue catching up with her. Hadvar left her sitting with his water skin, looking out towards a nearby mountaintop and the spindly, curving architecture that covered one of its faces. Ragnar joined him eventually.

'Bleak Falls Barrow,' the soldier said quietly. The mercenary didn't respond. 'My da used to scare me into being good with stories of it. You know, draugr creeping through my window at night to drag me away, that kind of thing. I still don't much like the look of it now, full-grown, but it doesn't frighten me as it did.' Ragnar remained silent, not feeling up to sharing his past as usual, and walked off after a few more moments to gather up their group to finish out the hike. They stopped some way down, again for the Bretonian mage who was this time attended by Hadvar. Under normal circumstances, the 'band would have continued on their own, but the two had helped them after all, and the little family was anything but fair-weather friends. Decimus continued to trail along like a forgotten puppy. For all his Imperial heritage, he seemed to be in excellent fitness and was doing rather well. No-one was going to state anything of the sort, however.

When Fleur was ready they moved out once more and this time didn't stop, with the exception of an encounter with a pair of wolves that attacked and were put down swiftly. At one point the trail became a cobbled path, turning into a proper road that stretched on and revealed Riverwood after they rounded a bend. Sighs of quiet relief were had, their strides slowing down to tired trudging. Hadvar kept pace with Ragnar long enough to converse shortly.

'My uncle's the blacksmith here. I'm going to take Fleur there and get her rested. The Sleeping Giant is on the far side of town, and Delphine should have enough beds for your group. I'll come find you in a few hours after I sort things out with my uncle.' With that, he broke off with the Breton, shouting a weary hail to the soot-stained man banging away at an iron bar on his anvil. Their conversation drifted off as Ragnar led his remaining family to the inn and unceremoniously trod inside. The heat of the hearth was welcome, rucksacks quickly shucked to the floor as the four gathered around it to warm themselves. The Nord behind the counter didn't bother them, allowing the group to get the mountain chill out of their bones before Ragnar approached him.

'Name's Orgnar. I help Delphine around the inn. It's ten septims per person, per night. We got food and drink, too.' Ragnar winced internally at the sum: Most of their earning had been back in Helgen, left behind and forgotten when the dragon attacked. Still, they'd managed to scrounge up a good number of coins and, most curious of all, a ruby that had been spilled from the stomach of one of the wolves that had attacked them on the road. Odd location for a precious gem aside, they had enough for a few days at most, not including food and libation, unless they found some bandits to plunder or honest work. Fishing the appropriate amount out of his purse, Ragnar paid up front and also grabbed several bottles of Honningbrew mead that he brought back to his fellows, though two were set aside and left alone. Each uncorked their bottle and raised it to clink against the others.

'For Sköll, and Siri. May we feast with them in Sovngarde one day.' A muffled chorus of 'aye' went around before the Nords drank deeply. Mead and ale flowed generously for the next few hours, the two bottles on the hearth remaining untouched, and Hati and Falda were in their cups by the time Hadvar entered the inn. Ragnar and Björn sat silently on one of the benches in the main room, sharing each others' company as they had countless times before, an almost-unseen glimmer shining in the corners of their eyes. The legionnaire took in the scene before him without a word and understood: He too had lost comrades. Sitting silently next to Ragnar, he waited for the other man to initiate conversation.

'What news, Legion?' he finally asked, staring into his tankard. Björn shifted to be able to see and hear better as Hadvar turned to face them.

'We're the first ones to make it here, maybe the only ones...' The thought caused a shiver to run up his spine but he continued. 'My aunt and uncle are grateful to you all for assisting us here. Truthfully, I don't think Fleur or I would have made it without any of you. That Decimus is an unreliable sort, and I'm glad I didn't have to put up with him overmuch.' Ragnar and Björn chuckled at that. The object of their joke had taken up residence in the local general store, last they'd seen. Beyond that, they knew not what had become of him, nor did they care.

'Is the Breton well?' Björn asked, answered by a nod. 'She pushed herself to heal our injuries. I laid her down in a bed before coming here.' The older warrior made a small noise in his throat. 'That said, Uncle Alvor's invited you to his home, Ragnar. He wishes to speak with you.' It was not unexpected, though the Nord was ill-inclined to do anything at the moment that didn't involve the contents of his cup.

'I'll stop by this evening,' he said with a wave, looking back into his tankard before taking a healthy draught to emphasise the point. Hadvar nodded and rose. 'I'll see you around, then.' When the soldier was gone, both mercenaries drained their tankards and refilled, Ragnar taking several bites from the chicken leg on his plate. Silence stretched between them, broken by the merry crackle of the fire and the loud, bawling song that Hati and Falda broke into. Despite the ruckus, neither of the warriors moved to calm them down. They would each grieve in their own way.

It wasn't until the sun was setting that the two crying drunks finally passed out and were hefted to their beds by their brothers, Björn taking up a position to keep watch as Ragnar cleaned up the mess somewhat. The bottles set out in honour of Siri and Sköll remained untouched.

'I'm going to take a piss... and then I'll go see this Alvor,' Ragnar told Björn, his friend nodding and remaining in his watchful position. Outside, it was nearly twilight, the torches and lamps being lit in the town as the Nord crossed the cobbled path to the river and undid his breeches, a groan of relief escaping him as his urine spattered into the rushing waters. Lacing himself back up when finished, Ragnar made a more-or-less straight path down to the house that he'd seen Hadvar at before they'd reached the inn, managing to not fall flat on his face as he climbed the few steps to the porch and banged on the door. His beard itched, fingers scratching at it when the door opened to reveal an older but still fetching woman. Her gaze was questioning, moreso when she smelled the alcohol fogging his breath.

'What is it?' she asked.

'This is the house of Alvor the smith? I helped your nephew Hadvar today...' The woman understood, stepping back and beckoning him inside. 'Come in. Alvor's in the basement.' Ragnar nodded his thanks, spotting the stairwell on the opposite side of the room and carefully making his way down it. Hadvar was sitting at a counter conversing with a man that looked to be around the same age as Björn, and had changed out of his Legion leathers, dressed now in a simple tunic and breeches. He looked up at the other Nord's entrance and motioned him over.

'Uncle Alvor, this is the man I mentioned, Ragnar.' The smith looked him over, straightening up and offering a hand in greeting which Ragnar took.

'Welcome to my home, Ragnar, and thank you for saving the life of my nephew. He assures me that he and his lady friend would have certainly perished without your aid.' Ragnar took a seat and said nothing on the matter. Fidgeting after a moment, Alvor mirrored him, facing both men.

'As much a favour as that was, I'm afraid I have another boon to ask of you and yours...' The mercenary indicated for him to continue. 'The Jarl needs to know that there's a dragon on the loose in his holdings. Balgruuf cares about his people and won't let Riverwood go defenceless with such a threat about.' At the mention of the Jarl's name, the muscle in Ragnar's cheek twitched again, though he said nothing. 'Could you make the journey to Whiterun and give him our message?'

A slow breath wended its way out of Ragnar's lungs. While he was already headed in that direction, he _really_ didn't want to get caught up in the affairs of others. Still, maybe it would give him a chance to stir things up, and that he wouldn't let pass.

'I'll see what I can do,' he said, 'but it must wait until tomorrow. My battle-siblings are sleeping the day off.' Alvor nodded in understanding.

'Hadvar hinted at what happened. I'm just glad that you're willing to do this at all. If there's any equipment you need before you head out, stop by in the morning and I'll see what I can do.' The discourse closed, Ragnar thanked the smith and shook his hand before leaving the house. Outside the inn, angry shouts diverted his attention from the borealis above to the wooden edifice, picking up his pace to get inside quickly. In the main room, Björn had his hands around the neck of a ruddy-faced man, older than himself, the innkeep holding an axe but looking uncertain on his course of action. Ragnar's quick bark got his friend's attention.

'By Shor, man, what's going on here?' Björn lifted the smaller man to his feet, but his grip on his neck remained. 'He tried to steal their mead, Ragnar...' This caught his attention, face hardening as a brow arched in a slight show of displeasure. On closer inspection, Ragnar saw that both of the bottles that had been sitting on the hearth were now on their sides on the floor, dark puddles showing what had happened to their contents. Taking a few steps around, the Nord looked at the captive and nearly gagged from the cloying aroma of alcohol around the man. 'Well no wonder, Björn. It seems you've caught the town drunkard. So man, you like mead?' Ragnar's hunting knife was in his hand, fiddling with it absently in plain view. 'You like it so much you would steal from our brother and sister? From our tribute to the dead?' The man's eyes widened in sudden realisation, though he struggled a bit more.

'Lemmeh go, yeh lummox! I di'nt know!' Björn's grip tightened minutely, but it was enough to make the man struggle harder. Ragnar's face went blank with anger. 'No. You didn't.' He seized hold of the man's legs and lifted as one of Björn's hands shifted to a shoulder, and they carried him out to the porch

before throwing him into the street unceremoniously. The pop of a dislocating joint was music to the uncaring Nord's ears. 'You try anything like that again and I'll kill you, thief.' His knife disappeared into his booth sheath as he and his friend went back inside, dealing with the wrath of the inn's mistress and then turning in for the night.

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**Riverwood, Whiterun Hold, Skyrim**

_18 Last Seed, 4E 201_

Morning dawned bright and early, Ragnar waking up quite suddenly and grunting through the transition to the conscious world. Sitting up, he twisted his body to work the kinks out of his muscles before getting up off the floor. Hati still snored in his bed, as did Falda from the sound of it. Gods, he was surprised the entire town couldn't hear her. Sniffing, he stepped out into the main room, enticed by the sizzling smell of bacon, to find the innkeep at work getting breakfast ready. Orgnar nodded a greeting but kept his eyes on his task, cooking eggs and setting two flanks of beef on the spit as Ragnar grabbed a jug of milk and poured himself a cup. Björn joined him soon after, and it wasn't until the food was ready that the two woke their fellows. Hati clutched at his head as Falda staggered out, both sitting down heavily and keeping their eyes turned away from the light that streamed in through the rafters. Their brothers chuckled, making sure they had their food first before feeding themselves. The meal did the hung over mercenaries some good, though they still moved a mite sluggish. Sitting nearby, Ragnar explained Alvor's request after their plates were empty.

'So there you have it... My business is in Whiterun anyways, so I am headed there regardless. None of you need to come with me if you are drawn elsewhere.' Hati and Falda absorbed it over cups of milk, Björn keeping his gaze locked on Ragnar throughout.

'Are you so eager to get rid of us, Ragnar Eiriksson?' the woman asked groggily, her voice still a bit nasal from her excess, sniffing and staring up at him through one eye. 'You should know that we won't be parting ways so easily. We all have to head through Whiterun, anyways: Hati has his family in Rorikstead, I my nieces in Morthal, and Björn his lad in Solitude.' Family, Ragnar mused, was a strange thing. 'Then it is settled. The smith said that he'd see to the needs of any of our equipment, so see him within the next few hours. We'll leave at noon.'

The rest of the day went by quickly, as leather was patched, ringmail mended, and weapons cared for lovingly under Alvor's skilled hands. Still having much in the way of supplies left over from the fort, the group did not bother stopping over at the general store, though they were greeted by the unwelcome sight of Decimus on the road watching them.

'You're leaving, then?' the young man asked. Ragnar looked at his rucksack pointedly, then back at the Imperial, silent. Decimus took the hint. 'I want to come to Whiterun with you. There's nothing for me here in this wretched little town.'

'What's wrong, milk-drinker? Can't ooze your way into a bed like you're used to?' Ragnar mocked. The muscles along Decimus' jaw tightened and loosened several times before he spoke again.

'Look: I'm _not_ useless. I can fight.' He lifted up the lapel of his vest to reveal several concealed knives and motioned to a pair of daggers sheathed at his hip. Ragnar was unimpressed. 'If you can fight, then why didn't you help us yesterday?' Decimus at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

'I'm... untested, in battle. All I've done is spar.' The Nord scoffed and shook his head with a morose grin, spreading his arms wide as he revealed a secret to the Imperial.

'Stupid boy. You should have taken advantage of the action yesterday to test yourself! Regardless, don't cause any trouble for us on the road.' Blinking a few times, it took Decimus a moment to realise that Ragnar had acquiesced, picking up his pace to catch up to the tail end of the group as they began their trek towards Whiterun. Their journey lasted into the evening, making camp as the sun set but not bothering to start a fire, so as to keep wildlife and bandits oblivious to their presence. Supper was a frugal combination of dried meats and bread, Decimus clearly finding the situation to his disliking but keeping his mouth shut as he wrapped up in his cloak for the night. The following morning dawned grey, dim, and soggy, their remaining hike a miserable experience that lasted into the afternoon. By now the Imperial was clearly regretting his choice, though he continued to trudge on, refusing to admit defeat in front of the others. Besides, it was a longer trip back to Riverwood.

Finally they rounded the final bend in the road, Skyrim's tundra stretching out before them. Whiterun sat like a proud dragon, the keep reaching into the sky. Ragnar couldn't help but grin a little bit, despite himself. There were coarse laughs of excitement and cheer from his friends, Hati smacking Falda's shoulder in his humour as they resumed following the road. A visit was pondered as they passed by the meadery, but ultimately opposed in favour of their more pressing business within the city. As they came upon a farm however, a thudding crash sent them all grabbing hold of their weapons, dashing forward toward the source of the uproar. Mounting a stone wall, they all stilled for a moment; one of the farms had been set upon by a giant, currently battling a trio of unknown warriors. Despite the odds, it looked like the demi-human was holding its own. Arrows stung its hide but did little more than anger it, most of its attention focussed on the two Nords nipping at its ankles. Without wasting time, the group charged forward and flung themselves into battle. It was a hard fight, the giant having so much reach and strength that a glancing blow sent Björn staggering away. Hati was having a difficult time getting a good shot in, though that didn't stop him, and Falda had some better luck bashing away at the giant's legs with her mace.

Ultimately, though, its death came as a surprise. From nowhere, Decimus flitted in, moving with an agility the others wouldn't have guessed he possessed and getting down between the giant's legs. His daggers looked like an unlikely weapon, but when he stabbed at the thing's ankle they sank right in, severing the Achilles tendon. Stunned, the Nords almost stopped dead at the sight, but the still-moving giant got their guards back up again as it rose up to one knee and swiped at one of the unknown warriors. Surprising them further, Decimus leaped and got his arms around the giant's neck, holding on for dear life as it jerked and clumsily tried to turn around. His teeth grit hard, the Imperial pulled himself up, got enough of a grip that he was secure, and then stabbed wildly at its throat. It only took three times to fatally wound it, but he still continued in a frenzy until it fell face-first to the turf, gurgling one last rattle before its final breath was gone. He struggled comically for a few moments, his arm trapped under its head, before managing to get free and collapsed onto his back, chest heaving.

The light drizzle was welcome after his sudden exertion, and he was content to lay there under the bewildered gaze of the Northmen. A chuckle wheezed out of his throat, heterochromatic eyes finding Ragnar's face among the many.

'Told you I can fight.' The Nord shrugged and turned to the strangers that had been fighting when they arrived, hand raised in greeting after he'd sheathed his weapons.

'Hail. I am Ragnar, and these are my companions, except for the milk-drinker in the mud, he's the unofficial puppy that keeps nipping at our heels,' he greeted, looking at them uncertainly until their leader stepped forward. She was tall, as most Nord women were, body covered in whipcord muscle that moved with a smooth grace, and she was rather pretty, a mane of fiery hair slicked to her head from the rain.

'I'm Aela, of the Companions. These are my Shield-siblings, Ria and Farkas.' Ragnar's eyes widened, and he looked at her male companion in astonishment.

'Farkas?' he exclaimed. The man's head cocked, then his face lit up in recognition. 'Ragnar!' The two clapped each other in an immense bear hug, the smaller man getting lifted off his feet as he laughed. 'It's good to see you, old friend.'

'Aye, and you,' came the rough response. 'No need for explanation, I know what brings you back to Whiterun.' Ragnar's face twisted a bit at that, though it didn't dim his mood much.

'I see you made the Companions. Good on you. That'd be a good choice for you, pup. Maybe they could beat some sense into your head,' he said, turning to Decimus. Aela quirked a brow.

'The milk-drinker?' Her voice dripped with scorn. Ragnar gestured to the giant's cooling corpse.

'He just took down a giant. No small feat, even among the Companions. And he fought smart, which not many do. How would the battle have gone had he not shown up? He just needs to get his head out of the clouds.' Ragnar stated. Despite her own reservations, the huntress gave it consideration before shaking her head.

'Not for me to say whether he's up to snuff or not. That's for the old man to decide. Still... You have a point, friend Ragnar. I'll see to it that he gets to Jorrvaskr.' The young man was dragged up to his feet, clothes a sodden mess at this point, and marched off with Aela and her ilk as Ragnar and Farkas bid each other farewell. Chuckling at what was to come for Decimus, Ragnar and the others continued forward. The livery stank of horse, unsurprisingly, the owner staring long and hard at the group's leader before getting back to his work. Just outside the city walls, a camp was being made, and when they got closer the Nords saw the feline inhabitants, though they let them keep their peace, concerned mostly with getting out of the cold drizzle. Their faces pinched in mutual frowns when they saw the closed gates as the passed the last rampart, one of the brawniest guards any of them had ever seen quickly moving to intercept them, her lilting voice carrying easily.

'City's closed, travellers. You might as well turn around and...' At her sudden pause, they all stopped, eyes clapped once again on their leader. 'Ragnar? Brother, it is you!' There were a few exasperated groans, but it was all good-natured in the face of the newest unexpected reunion. Her helmet came off, spilling a veritable waterfall of flaxen blonde hair down her back, eyes a vibrant green contrast to Ragnar's blue, and she rushed forward. He caught her midway, enveloped in a crushing hug that made Farkas' look gentle in comparison, laughing.

'Hello, Ynga.' His sister's face beamed, still held in her embrace. 'It's good to see you again, brother. But what brings you here? Never mind, let's get you inside the city and in front of a fire, then we can talk.' She turned to the other guard manning the gate. 'Thrik, I'm taking my brother here to get settled in. I'll stop by the barracks to have them send a cover for the watch.' With that, they pushed past the gates and into the city proper.

Now, he was truly home.

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**A/N:** As ever, hope y'all enjoyed the read. Feel free to leave a comment or review


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